


How JC Escaped from Planet Sequin and Got His Groove Back

by SnarkyLlama



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Make the Yuletide Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2009-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyLlama/pseuds/SnarkyLlama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JC's not a vampire or anything.  He's just a pale guy with a mysterious dust problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How JC Escaped from Planet Sequin and Got His Groove Back

**Author's Note:**

> This was my Make the Yuletide Gay (2008) fic for Strippedhalo.

** _I'll call you on the phone  
I hope that I get through_ **

"Eric," JC sighed as his phone tried to slip away from him again. "I'm really not interested in that."

Far away and presumably unencumbered by a contrary Samsung, Eric launched into one of his spiels. Visibility was important. Appearances that didn't interest JC would lead, in all due time, to appearances that _did_ interest him. Blah, blah, blah. Get out of the house. Blah, blah.

JC had heard it all before.

He knew that he could stop it. He could say "no" or "hey, let's face it, no one wants me for my music," but he never did. He was just... It was just...

Well, Eric was just so Eric-y and enthusiastic, it would be like kicking a puppy. That's what it was. And sure, it was probably a baby pit bull or something, but that didn't make kicking it any less mean, so JC simply sighed again and moved "buy a new Bluetooth" higher on his mental to-do list.

He needed a headset because it was surprisingly difficult to securely wedge a cell phone between your shoulder and your ear. He kept trying till he managed it, and then opened the refrigerator and leaned forward carefully, an inch at a time, and reached for the cheese drawer.

Sensing his distraction, the phone seized its opportunity. In a desperate bid for freedom, it leapt--

"Fuck!"

\--and landed in the Jell-O.

"You wily little bastard!"

He considered just leaving it there in its lime-flavored grave, but the phone actually seemed to be okay. Eric's tiny little voice was still emitting from it, and, okay, this was really stupid, but he rather liked the phone now. It was the cellular version of Chris.

He fished it out of the bowl, then nearly dropped it as he fumbled with slick fingers for the speaker button. He hated how speaker phones made everything sound hollow and echoing, but sometimes that was the lesser of two evils.

"JC? Are you even listening?"

"Hey, man, sorry. I am like... so busy right now. Really busy. I'll call you back in a few, okay?"

"JC, this is--"

JC ended the call and wiped the phone down with a paper towel, before turning back to the 'fridge. Right, so... asiago cheese, eggs, spinach...

He gathered the ingredients, and then set to work, humming "All Day Long I Dream about Quiche" as he cooked. He didn't have an exciting career, but he still had his sense of humor. That was enough.

He did not call Eric back.

#

"I wish you'd recon...er."

Eric's voice faded in and out, and JC had to admit that as spacious and comfortable as his closet was, it had lousy cell-phone reception. That didn't bother him too much, though. He wasn't missing anything important; Eric was still saying the same old thing.

"Look," he said, glad that he had a Bluetooth again and could talk with ease while rummaging through his clothes. "We talked about this before. I think Dance Crew is enough of an appearance. In fact, it's better than an appearance because I'm actually doing something, even if it's not..."

Wait. Were those the ones he was looking for?

He pulled a vintage pair of button-fly jeans from the rack and held them up to get a better look. Oh, yeah. These were great. These made all those hours of watching old, TiVo'd episodes of _Project Runway_ totally worth it. He would have forgotten these if it hadn't been for that Levi's challenge.

"JC... JC, are you even list...ing?"

Oh, Eric.

He really didn't feel like arguing with Eric. He stepped out of the closet, so at least he wouldn't have to listen to Eric cut in and out, and asked, "Do we have to talk about this now?"

"You pay me to talk about this--and, by the way, when I say 'talk,' I mean we have a discussion where everyone listens and no one drifts off in the middle of a sentence and starts in on the musical stylings of the artist formerly known as Prince."

"Prince?"

"You were humming 'U Got the Look' at me, and don't get me wrong, I'd be flattered if I thought that was a compliment, but--"

"I love Prince," JC said. "What's he doing nowadays?"

"He turned fifty and retired, so... I don't know. But whatever it is, I can guarantee it's more than what you're doing, which, in case you haven't noticed, is absolutely nothing."

"Hey! Dance Crew isn't nothing."

There was no answer. Eric had hung up on him.

Well, whatever. Dance Crew wasn't nothing. It really made a difference for those kids. And all those little bit parts in movies weren't nothing. They were a couple days' entertainment and a pleasant distraction, which was pretty much all that JC could ask for these days. Eric could just chill.

JC slipped out of his pants and tugged on the jeans. Oh, yeah. He'd bought them four, maybe five years ago and they still fit perfectly. He stood in front of the mirror and twisted to check himself out from every angle. He looked good. Damn good.

He laughed at his vanity then, and shimmied while singing a little more Prince. _Your face is jammin', your body's heck a-slammin'._

He laughed again and twirled around the room. He should give Eric a bonus for having hooked him up with such a great personal trainer, maybe suggest he spend it on a nice, relaxing vacation somewhere 'cause Eric's blood pressure was probably out of this world.

#

When Eric called, JC was in his music room, sprawled out on his favorite lounge chair and listening to Zapp &amp; Roger's "So Ruff, So Tuff" on repeat in preparation for the inevitable debate with Justin over the relative merits of old-school electronic voice distortion versus Autotune. He didn't know when they'd have that debate, but he would be ready.

He turned the music down a bit and listened to Eric with half an ear until he said: "Now, I know you said to focus on acting, but I've had a few ideas and I think we can really do this. You're a much better singer than David, so you can't--"

Oh, god dammit. Was he going to force JC to say it?

"--let him have more of your songs--"

"No, Eric."

"I think we can get your album--"

JC turned off the stereo. He wanted Eric to be very, very clear on this.

"My album is dead, Eric. _Kate_ is dead. Leave it be."

He tried to say it calmly, but he maybe growled a bit at the very end.

Eric growled right back. "I'm doing my fucking job."

"Your job is to do what I fucking tell you to do."

Eric laughed.

"Think again, Chasez. I'm your fucking _manager_. My job is to help you get what you want, and I'd never _manage_ that if I actually did what you told me to do."

"I want you to leave it alone. I want you to focus on the acting and producing."

"That's not what you want. I can--"

_You can't!_ JC wanted to snap. _You can't get me what I really want, and we both know it._

But JC didn't say that, if he said it, then he'd have to admit that Johnny Wright was probably the only one who could get JC what he wanted. And JC didn't want Johnny; he didn't fucking trust Johnny.

And he knew damn well that Johnny didn't want him. NSYNC's time had come and gone, and JC Chasez, solo artist, had never really existed.

He wasn't a solo artist. He could never be one.

"No," JC said. "Just... just listen to me for a moment, okay? Please listen. This is what I want." He paused for a deep breath. If he was calm enough, maybe Eric would listen for a change. "I want to focus on acting and producing. I'm not interested in my music anymore, I'm not feeling my music anymore, I don't care about my music anymore. Okay? Got it?"

Eric was silent.

"Eric? Have you got it? Can I be any clearer?"

"Fine," Eric said. "If you're going to be that way, then... be that way, JC."

There was something very ominous in the way he'd said that. JC hoped it didn't mean that he was planning to quit. Eric was a cool guy when he wasn't in nagging-manager mode.

"Hey, Eric?"

There was no answer.

JC put his phone down, then sighed and looked over at the stereo. He really wasn't in the mood for Zapp &amp; Roger anymore. He could put in another CD or even go more old-school and pull out some vinyl. But that seemed like an awful lot of effort now.

Or he could pull out some porn...

He kept all of his favorites down here. It only made sense. Music got him off as often as porn did. They were both so visceral, all about feelings and sound and bodies in motion, and good sex was as close to music as good music was like sex.

But that wasn't a good idea. He didn't want to associate Eric with jerking off.

He tugged the furry afghan down from the back of his chair and wrapped himself up in it. He'd just close his eyes for a bit and put all this unpleasantness behind him.

#

JC woke up and rubbed his eyes, then rubbed them again more carefully. They seemed a bit gritty. He must have slept longer than he'd meant to.

The room was dark, and he was hungry and... huh.

Why was he in this room anyway? He had a perfectly nice bed upstairs; he didn't have to resort to napping in random spare rooms.

He dragged himself out to the kitchen, and when he saw the time on the microwave's display, he frowned. Late dinner? Or early breakfast?

Neither, he decided. He grabbed a handful of Newman's Own Organic Oreo-type Things from the cookie jar and ate them on his way up to bed.

** _It was so mysterious,  
But something that I liked_ **

A sneezing fit woke JC up. He felt gritty and itchy and gross. He scrabbled at the nightstand, trying to find a tissue, and then stopped, surprised. The whole table was covered in a fine layer of dust. The cleaning service had just been in, but they must have overlooked this table.

Ah, well. It was an easy mistake to make. It was bound to happen every once in a while, and it certainly wouldn't kill him to dust it himself.

Then he sneezed three more times and decided that he could dust after he took a shower. He was too gross for anything else.

#

After his shower, he noticed a strange little line of grit around the drain. It sparkled a bit like white sand.

#

The cleaning crew brought most of their supplies in from the van with them, so JC didn't have any of those fancy micro-fiber dusters like they had. For a moment, he considered making a duster out of one of his old feathered shirts, but that wasn't practical. He might want to wear feathers again someday.

He took a washcloth from the linen closet and wondered if he should dampen it. He remembered doing chores when he was young, spraying Pledge on one of his father's old undershirts and how that thick, lemon scent coated the back of his throat like oil. His mother would say, "Don't just push the dust around, Joshua," and watch him with eagle eyes until she trusted him to do it right.

And now he was woolgathering instead of doing a simple chore; she'd scold him for that if she were here.

"Right," he told himself. "There's time for dreaming when the work is done."

He brandished his washcloth and went off to tackle the nightstand... but it wasn't just the nightstand. His entire bedroom was dusty, seriously dusty. He could write his name in it.

Well, writing "JC" didn't require much dust, but still, there was no way Marciella and her crew would have skipped right over his room in their cleaning. There must have been some sort of atmospheric anomaly recently. Something had kicked up a lot more dust than usual.

Whatever it was, it was sure to settle back down soon.

#

He woke every morning to gritty eyes and sneezing. He used eye drops. He took Claritan. He bought allergen air filters for every room and a humidifier for the bedroom.

He watched Marciella check the filter on the vacuum cleaner, and paid her extra to put in a new filter even though she insisted that it didn't need changing.

Every day, he checked the pollen count. It wasn't elevated.

Then he checked the weather reports, the science news, and the letters to the editor. Nothing was out of the ordinary. There were no forest fires, no volcanic activity, no concerns about a dramatic increase in construction-related dust, and no complaints about illegal quarries or sawmills or anything else that JC could think of that would produce large quantities of dust.

Lance laughed his head off when JC tried asking him about meteor activity and space dust.

Really, his questions hadn't been that outlandish.

#

He always used to go out on the day the cleaning service came. He'd go shopping or catch a matinee or grab a coffee somewhere. That wasn't practical now that he had the service coming so often. He just turned the TV up loud enough to drown out the vacuum and tried to stay out of everyone's way.

He liked daytime television, and it worked out pretty well.

He was dashing to the kitchen one day, hoping to zap a bag of popcorn and get back to A&amp;E's _Intervention_ marathon before the commercials were over, when he saw Marciella pushing the vacuum into one of the spare rooms. He skidded to a halt.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, Marciella, you do so much these days, I really can't ask you to do that room, too."

She stared at him, and he wondered if he was talking too fast.

"I just hate to make you work so hard," he explained.

"It's dusty."

"That's okay. I don't use that room, I can barely even remember the last time I--"

"It's very important, this room."

"No," he assured her. "I think I took a nap in there once, but that's it, I swear. You can skip it."

"You are certain? I do not wish to--"

"I'm positive." He smiled at her, and then realized that his show was probably coming back on. He'd have to make popcorn during the next break.

#

He went out for lunch one day with some pretty little friend of Tara's. They went to an open-air café and had a good time, their light banter mixing delightfully with the truly fabulous sandwiches and drinks, until JC noticed how his arm shimmered in the afternoon sun. He tried unobtrusively to brush the faint sparkle from his skin, but it wouldn't come off.

After that, he could only think of getting inside before someone else noticed. With his luck, Perez Hilton would catch word of it and he'd never hear the end of the _Twilight_ jokes.

#

He liked to buy necessities in the evening when the paparazzi, including the tenacious few who still thought he was worth a picture or two, went to the clubs to hunt for bigger game. He felt better, knowing that the mundane, intimate details of his life were safe for another day. And really, there weren't that many people who needed to know his preferences when it came to such things as condoms, toilet paper, and breakfast food.

He had a favorite corner store, not too far from his home. It wasn't anything special, he just liked it. One of the clerks had green hair and a lip ring and looked a bit like one of Chris' sisters, and the night manager looked like Howie Dorough. It was a good place.

Lately, though, their PA system was on the blink. The Muzak they piped in had gone flat and dull and toneless. He wondered why they didn't turn it off until they could fix it.

One night, when the green-haired girl was at the register, she waved her hand at the ceiling and said, "That must be weird for you, huh?"

He looked up. One of the speakers was over her head. Surely it was weirder for her, having to listen to it all the time. "For me?" he asked.

"Yeah, they elevatored one of your songs. Don't you hate that?"

What?

He concentrated on listening for a moment. Maybe it was an instrumental version of "Girlfriend." It was hard to tell.

"Honestly?" he said. "I didn't notice."

"I guess you get used to-- Oh, this is old."

She wiped at the cereal box he'd just handed her, sending a small landslide of glinting dust to the counter.

"You don't want this," she said. "Let me get you a new one."

"No, no. That's okay."

He knew the cereal wasn't old.

#

He had to cancel the cleaning service after he noticed how nervous even Marciella had become around him. He hated to do it, but he couldn't think of any way to reassure her.

Somehow, he thought telling her, "Hey, I'm not a vampire or anything. I'm just a pale guy with a mysterious dust problem," was unlikely to help.

#

It wasn't that bad, really.

The dust was thick in the bedroom, but there were only small drifts of it in the rest of the house. A guy could get used to sparkles in the shower drain every morning, a line of shimmering dust on the kitchen counter, and little silvery dust bunnies on the stairs.

He bought a couple of those little robot vacuum things and set them loose in the house. They ran continuously, only stopping when their dirt compartments were full or their batteries were drained and JC had to find them and set them back on their charging units. They couldn't suck up everything, but they helped with the worst of it.

He kept busy, catching up on a few books that he'd always meant to read and watching a lot of television.

Sometimes, he'd just turn off the TV and sit there watching how the little eddies of dust seemed to shift and swirl with every breath he took. It was kind of... peaceful.

#

A phone rang and jolted JC from his contemplation of the whirling nebulae at his feet. He jumped, or well, really, he just lurched a bit before slumping against the arm of the couch because, holy crap, man, he didn't have any feeling in his legs. He rubbed at them hard, trying to get some circulation back in his calves, and groaned.

God, all of the parts of him that did have feeling were stiff and sore and achy, and just how long had he been sitting here anyway?

He had no idea. He wasn't even sure what day it was.

He'd ordered a pizza, and there it was, box open and two slices gone, but he didn't have to touch it to know that it was cold. It just had that hard, stale-pizza look. Well... that hard, stale pepperoni-and-extra-glitter look.

His stomach churned, and for the first time, he thought, "This can't continue."

He didn't care for the allergy symptoms, but he'd been kind of enjoying the rest of this, just a little. It felt like being caught up in a mystery, in something special. He hadn't been a part of something special since... well... since Chris had said "no." But he didn't want to think about that.

Thinking about that always left him feeling brittle, like his skin was stretched too tightly over bones that were too hollow and thin. He hated that. He hated knowing that, without Justin, there was no NSYNC for Chris and there was nothing he could do to change that. And he hated that he couldn't hate Chris for that, but he couldn't. He understood it only too well; without Chris, there was no NSYNC for JC.

By the time JC managed to pull himself up and take a few unsteady steps, the phone had stopped ringing. That was okay. He hadn't recognized the ring tone, anyhow. Someone must have accidentally left their cell phone here.

He picked up the pizza box, and took it into the kitchen and chucked it in the trash. Then he stood there, looking down at the smiley-faced pizza logo while trying to remember who he'd had over recently. The pizza delivery guy, the Chinese delivery guy, the little old lady from the deli, the Thai delivery guy... Somehow, he didn't think any of them had left a phone.

He should go look for it and figure out whose it was.

** _Knocked unconscious,  
Walking on water  
'Cause I'm thinking of you_ **

Lance let himself into JC's house. He wasn't supposed to, his key was only for emergencies, but he figured that was only a piddling little detail when he was taking precious time out of his busy Cha-cha with the Fangirl schedule and JC wasn't bothering to answer his doorbell or his phone.

Knowing JC, he was probably locked up in his studio, deaf to the world. Normally, Lance would just leave him like that, but this was their night. They had a standing Gin-and-Gossip Night every eighth Wednesday, and Lance had been looking forward to bitching about Lacey and all of her Justin questions. He liked Lacey, he really did, but oh my God, would the Justin questions never end?

He stopped in the entryway and flicked on the lights, and holy shit. Talk about a major wardrobe malfunction, it looked like all of their NSA costumes had exploded in here. A thin layer of iridescent glitter covered every surface, and it wasn't even New Year's or Mardi Gras.

"JC?" he called out, though he didn't expect an answer. If JC hadn't heard the doorbell, he probably wouldn't hear him now.

He walked down the hall and peered into a couple of rooms: glitter, glitter everywhere, but none of the usual post-party detritus that should have gone with it.

"JC?" he called again, and that's when he saw it, a bare foot peeking out from behind the sofa in the den. His heart leapt and he rushed into the room as his mind went into overdrive, telling himself to calm down, it was only someone napping on the floor, it wasn't a body, and it certainly wasn't JC's body.

Except it was JC's body.

Oh, holy Hannah.

"JC!"

He knelt by JC and touched his shoulder, and then, common sense somehow pushing its way through his panic, he checked JC's pulse. Come on, come on, come on... His hands were shaking. What if--?

Oh, thank God.

There was his pulse, nice and slow and steady.

He brushed a little glitter off of JC's cheek and leaned back on his heels.

"You bastard," he said. "Don't scare me like that."

#

The joke might have been that JC could sleep through anything, but in reality, there were limits to that. Sure, JC could sleep through his bandmates' stealthy efforts to decorate him with candy and random bits of flotsam and jetsam, but it was fairly easy to wake him on purpose.

But he wasn't waking up now.

Lance's fear, which had subsided when he found JC's pulse, was ratcheting up again with every minute that passed. Here was JC, prone and unresponsive on the floor, a cell phone clutched in one hand. Had he been trying to call 911? Should Lance call 911? Would he be starting a vicious cycle of rehab rumors or saving his friend's life?

Fuck that. JC could deal with the rumors.

Lance dug his phone from his pocket, but before he could flip it open, JC sneezed twice and curled into the fetal position. Lance grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

"Dammit, C! Come on!"

JC rolled over and blinked wearily at him. "Hey, cat." He closed his eyes, then opened them again a second later. "Lance? What--?"

"Shh," Lance said. He brushed some more glitter from JC's face and checked JC's pupils. They seemed normal, but... "JC, can you tell me what you took?"

JC rubbed his nose and frowned.

"Please, honey. It's important."

"Claritan," JC said. "What are you doing here?"

"Claritan? I found you passed out on the floor, I think that's more than Claritan."

JC started to sit up, but Lance pressed a hand to his chest. He wasn't convinced that JC should be moving yet. JC frowned at him, and then looked around.

"Where's Chris?"

_Chris?_

"JC, do you know where we are?"

"Well..." JC drawled. "You won't let me up, so I can't say for certain... but it sure looks like the floor of my den." He rubbed his nose again, and then tilted his head thoughtfully. "Where do you think we are?"

Lance cuffed his ear, and JC squeaked in his indignant little way that meant he wasn't hurt, but how dare you lay hands on me, you scoundrel. In the old days, that would have led to a tickling match. Now, Lance just shook his head and called JC a smart-ass.

"If you're well enough for sarcasm, I suppose I can let you sit up."

"I want to sit on the couch."

"Fine," Lance said. He stood and offered JC a hand up. "But don't come running to me if you pass out again."

"How am I going to run if I'm--?"

"Hush you."

JC snickered, and Lance pushed him gently, forcing him to sit down.

"It's not funny. You nearly gave me a heart attack, making me find you like that. If you're on anything..."

JC shook his head. "Just Claritan, I swear. Because of all the dust."

"Yeah." Lance swiped at the knees of his pants, and then bent down to pick up the phone C had been holding. "It's filthy in here, what happened to your cleaning service?"

"Oh! You found Chris." JC reached out and plucked the phone from Lance's hand.

"You named your cell 'Chris.'"

"It's small and wily," JC said, busily pressing buttons. "But I think it's broken. Call me."

"You passed out and you're worried about your phone."

"Please?"

Lance sighed. He had to choose his battles and this one wasn't worth fighting. Sometimes, humoring JC was the only way to get anywhere. He pulled his phone back out and pressed the memory button for him.

The other phone rang, and JC frowned down at it.

"I don't think it's broken," Lance said.

"That's not my ring tone. It's supposed to play 'Treat Me Right.'"

Lance wasn't a Backstreet fan, but he was pretty sure he knew what it was playing.

"That is 'Treat Me Right.'"

"No, it's not."

"It's got the handclaps."

"No, it's--" JC stood up. "No, I can prove it." He stalked out of the room and down the hall.

Lance followed him. At the door to the music room, JC stopped suddenly and turned a pale shade of green.

"Dammit," Lance said, rushing to support him. "I knew you weren't okay."

JC touched the door knob, but didn't open the door. He was trembling.

"This is my music room," JC said.

"Yeah, I know. Are you okay, do you need to--?"

"Excuse me," JC said, ducking away from him. "I'm gonna--"

JC ran to the bathroom.

Lance stood outside the door for a minute, listening to the sounds of JC being terribly sick, and then called Joey. He needed the moral support.

#

"Look," Lance said later, when JC was all cleaned up and looking a little less green. "I think you should come home with me."

JC nodded, but it was the sort of gesture that made Lance doubt that he'd been heard.

"To my place or to a hotel," he added. "Wherever you want, as long as you let me keep an eye on you."

JC nodded again, and it made Lance's heart ache to see him so listless. It was unnatural.

He sat down beside him and wrapped his arms around him. "Hey, you're going to be okay. I promise."

JC simply nodded.

#

Lance did what his mama would have done; he took JC home and fed him.

JC wasn't interested in the food, but Lance kept at him until he ate half a bowl of soup. While JC ate, Lance skipped gin-and-tonics and went straight to Scotch on the rocks. He needed it.

Once he had JC safely tucked away in the second-best guest room--it was the sensible choice when there might be vomiting or God only knows what else--Lance made another, much longer call to Joey. They couldn't leave JC like this. They had to do something, because he didn't want to add "lost JC" to his list of life-long regrets.

** _Clear my eyes, it's the morning after  
Did I fall in love or did I find disaster?_ **

JC wasn't surprised when he opened his eyes and saw the familiar shimmer of dust on the unfamiliar sheets. Yesterday had proved pretty conclusively that there was nothing wrong with his house and everything wrong with him. He was... broken.

He sniffed and wished for a tissue. When he couldn't find one, he hauled himself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. He took care of the usual, pressing morning concerns and then carefully washed and dried his face. He didn't want to wallow here feeling sorry for himself, and the first step was making himself presentable. Nothing aided a good wallow quite like being ugly and unclean.

Not that he had anything against having a good, long wallow. He just didn't want to do it here at Lance's. It would be too humiliating.

Lance wasn't a wallower. He was too... together for that. He smiled in the face of defeat and bought trendy drinks and licked strippers and fucked really hot men, and JC really admired that. He was strong and resilient in ways JC had never been.

It was early and the house was quiet, but he didn't know Lance's schedule. Was he still asleep? Or had he gone to meet whatshername somewhere to foxtrot his heart out? He lingered for a moment outside the door to the master suite. He could poke his head in and greet Lance if he was there... or he could go scare up some coffee.

Coffee it was.

Down in the kitchen, he admired the beautiful, gleaming espresso machine which looked more like a sculpture praising the coffee gods than something he could actually use. Then he opened all of the lower cabinets, one after another, until he found the Mr. Coffee that Lance kept around for his lesser-skilled friends. He fussed with the filters and the grounds, and set it to brew, and then, while he waited--

There was something he had to check while he was alone, because he didn't know how bad it would be.

\--he flicked on the 'fridge-door TV and clicked through the channels: plastic morning news anchors, Cascade dishwasher detergent, Bounty the Quicker Picker-Upper, used cars, weather maps...

MTV.

...

There was no music.

There was only sound. Flat, dull, sound.

It was waking up to discover that your heart had been ripped out of your chest three months back and you'd never even noticed, and you wanted to weep and rend your clothing and sit in the ashes, but you couldn't because you needed a heart to grieve.

It was noise.

And a terrible, aching pain that did not hurt.

And how could he live, knowing it was gone?

#

He didn't know how long he stood there, hearing sound and feeling nothing, until Lance came in and smiled and poured coffee for them both.

"Feeling better?" Lance asked.

JC tore his eyes away from the latest, lifeless music video.

"Sing something," he said.

"What?"

"Sing something. Please."

"Yeah, yeah, I meant 'what do you want me to sing?'"

"Anything."

Lance pushed one of the mugs into JC's hand, and then blushed a little and sang. "_The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup._ Was that okay? Can I stop being stupid now?"

It wasn't okay. Lance wasn't as flat and lifeless as those videos or his ring tone or the convenience store's Muzak, but it still wasn't music. JC felt music, felt it all the way through, in his blood, in his bones...

Or, at least he had.

"Thank you," he said.

"No problem." Lance took a sip of his coffee. "So, is this a new game? Do I get to ask you for a jingle now?"

"I can't--"

Wait. Did he know that? Maybe there was just something wrong with his ears. Maybe they were clogged with dust.

He straightened his back and closed his eyes and reached, reached for that place where music lived inside him, reached for the joy that made his lungs expand and his voice burst forth strong and pure. He reached... and came up empty.

"I can't," JC said.

#

Lance made scrambled eggs, which JC pushed around his plate, and toast, which he tore into pieces and ate more out of habit than desire. Lance was sweet and lovely and concerned, and JC was horrible because he wanted to run home and have a proper breakdown all by himself. Lance didn't know what it was to be broken.

"Well," Lance said after his second cup of coffee. "I've taken the morning off. People are unhappy, but they'll manage without me."

"You didn't have to," JC said. "I can call a cab and be out of your hair in no time."

"You're not in my hair, C, and I did it because I wanted to."

Lance smiled at him, and JC stabbed at a clump of eggs. He was a horrible, no good, ungrateful person with really nice friends. It sucked to be him.

"So, there's a couple of things we should talk about," Lance said. "First of all, I'd like to call my service, get them to do an emergency cleaning at your place. Do something about all that glitter."

"It's not glitter, it's dust."

"All the more reason to get rid of it, right?"

JC took another triangle of toast and tore it in half.

"You don't need to do that, I have a service."

"They're not doing a very good job."

"I had to cancel them, but they were great. I don't need another service."

"Oh," Lance said. "Okay..."

JC could tell that he had more questions, but he wasn't about to explain how Marciella and her crew had been afraid of him.

"What else?" he asked.

Lance shifted his coffee mug from hand to hand.

"I think it would be a good idea if you weren't alone. Just for a while. Maybe you could call Tyler or visit your parents--"

That was out of the question. He wasn't going to worry his family over this.

"--or, well... Joey would like you to come stay with them."

"No."

"You're always welcome there."

"No."

"Briahna and Kelly adore you."

And there was no way that JC was going to bring his dust into their home. Kelly liked a clean house, and what if the dust was contagious or something? He didn't want it anywhere near Briahna.

"No," he said again.

Lance put his mug down and pressed his hands flat against the table.

"I'm not trying to run your life, C. I'm just concerned. You were unconscious and alone. Has it happened before?"

"I don't..."

Fuck. He didn't really know.

"If you don't know, I want you to be safe. And personally? I don't trust some of your friends, they don't-- I don't know what they might be slipping you."

"I'll be okay."

"You weren't okay. So... hate me if you want, but if you don't at least ask someone trustworthy to stay with you for a while--just to keep an eye on things, to call 911 if you need it--then... I'm going to call Justin and tell him that I think you have a drug problem."

"Lance! Jesus!"

That was fucking blackmail, and what he'd said about Lance being all sweet and concerned was wrong. Lance was evil, evil and concerned.

"I don't want to do it," Lance said. "I really don't. But I want you to understand how serious I am about this. I will do it if I need to."

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"I'll call someone."

He didn't know who, but--

Lance handed him his cell phone, and JC had a brilliant idea.

"Where's Chris?"

"Your phone?"

"No, our Chris. Is he doing anything?"

#

Lance was evil and sneaky, and he obviously didn't trust him, but in the end, he agreed to give JC privacy for his call, as long as JC let him speak to Chris when he was done. JC went upstairs to get his own phone, because it was better and less... Lance-y.

Chris started in before JC could say hello.

"Hey, C, I was going to call you."

"Yeah?"

Chris didn't call him, not in the normal course of things. JC had to provoke him into it, usually by saying something profoundly stupid to the right E! correspondent or, lately, by wearing "Jesus Christ, JC, stop stealing your clothes from blind, old men, will ya?" ties to Dance Crew tapings.

He hoped Chris hadn't been planning to call him just because Lance or Joey had talked to him last night.

"Yeah, I'm going to be out your way soon, gotta see a man about a dancing fish."

"You're coming to see Lance?"

"That'd be the fish. I agreed to this thing, so I have to make an appearance and show my support, you know how it goes. And I figured, hey, why pay for a hotel when three of my best buds live there? So I was going to call you and give you time to go buy some of those little mints to put on my pillow."

Wow. Chris wanted to stay with him?

"Hey, that's great!"

He didn't even have to ask Chris or tell him anything. He could just come, and they'd have a nice time, and... Chris would see the dust... and see how screwed up he was...

"Oh. Oh, wait... that wouldn't... I mean..."

"If you don't want me to stay with you, just spit it out, man."

"No, no, I want you, it's just... I'm not sure you'll want to come 'cause... um. I was calling to ask you to... visit me."

Chris laughed.

"Oh, yeah, C, that's not serendipitous at all. I have no interest in staying at your place if it isn't going to be a huge, freakin' imposition on you. I'll just keep calling around, then, looking for someone who doesn't want me."

"It's not-- Please come, but my place is a mess and it won't be much of a vacation, and--"

"Jesus, who do you think you're talking to? A little clutter isn't going to keep me from having a good time."

"It's actually, uh... a bit more complicated than that. I'm-- I'm having some... I'm a bit messed up right now and I wasn't so much asking you to visit as... asking for your help."

"Where are you, C?" Chris' tone had changed completely. "What's going on? If you need immediate help--"

"It's not an emergency. I'm at Lance's."

"He better be taking good care of you."

"He is. He's not the problem."

"Good, 'cause I'd fight him for you, but he's pretty feisty. It would be one hell of a nasty cat fight, and at least one of us would be walking away with a broken nail."

JC had to laugh, because nothing stopped Chris from being _Chris_.

"Lance isn't the problem at all. It's just... he's _Lance_, and I think this is something I need you for."

He didn't know if Chris could help him. He didn't even know if he could be helped. But Chris knew what it was to be broken, and he was really, really good at it. It was like he had learned how to hold all his broken pieces in together. Something could happen, and there would another broken piece of Chris, but somehow, he was always whole.

Maybe he could teach JC the trick to that.

#

They spoke a little longer.

JC didn't want to tell him what was wrong, not over the phone. It was the sort of thing that Chris wasn't going to believe right away, and it would be better to get him here first. Then he might stay, even if he thought JC was pulling some sort of elaborate joke.

They made arrangements and JC agreed to pay for Chris' flight, even though Chris had plenty of money and had been planning to fly out here anyway. It made Chris feel good to think he'd won something against JC's "crazy, penny-pinching ways." And it was worth it, to get Chris there. He'd missed him, and that, at least, had nothing to do with recent events.

When they were finished, JC told him that he needed to go hand the phone to Lance.

"What?" Chris laughed. "Is Lance your babysitter now?"

"No, it's--"

"No, no, don't tell me. Lance is one of those bad babysitters, isn't he? Always on the phone and sneaking into your parents' room to look for their sex toys."

"My parents didn't--! They don't have sex toys!"

"Sure they do, C. Your kinky streak had to come from somewhere."

"That's just-- That's-- Don't even. No."

Chris laughed again.

"You're a sick, twisted man, Chris Kirkpatrick."

"Takes one to know one, baby. Now give me to Lance."

#

JC handed over the phone, and then wandered through the house, noting the changes since the last time he'd visited.

There was a large Christmas cactus in the dining room. It was at the tail end of a bloom, and there were a lot of dead flowers on it. They were ugly and sad, so JC began pulling them off. Some of them were shriveled and crisp like tissue paper. Others hadn't dried as much, and he thought they felt like dead butterfly wings would.

Lance found him and held out his phone.

"He still wants to talk to you," Lance said, and smacked JC's hand away from the cactus.

JC took the phone and left Lance to clean up the scattered trail of blossoms.

"Chris?"

"He found you passed out cold, and then you threw up."

"He told you."

"Yep," Chris said. "I trained our Big-mouth Bass right."

"It's 'large-mouth--'"

"Are you pregnant?"

"What?"

"Fainting and vomiting, C. I think it's a legitimate question."

"I'm still a guy!"

"Are you doing any drugs I wouldn't do?"

"No!"

"What were you drinking?"

"Nothing," JC said. Jesus, did everyone have to jump to the wrong conclusions? "You know, you don't have to come."

"Oh, no, I think I do."

"And why's that? You want to escort me to rehab personally?"

"No, but I'll do that if I have to."

"Then what is it?"

"Lance also said that you have a crush on me."

"Lance is evil, sneaky and conniving."

"I know," Chris said. "I'm quite proud of him."

"You shouldn't listen to him."

"It's okay if you have a crush on me."

"I don't."

"Okay," Chris said. "Well, I've got a lot to do today, so I'd better go do it. I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, and JC?"

"Yes?"

"Say 'hi' to Chris for me."

JC snapped his phone shut.

"Look," he told it. "Don't you get any ideas from him."

#

Lance couldn't put off working on his new choreography forever, so he asked JC if he wanted to come along. JC tried to imagine what it would be like, watching Lance dance while he, himself, couldn't feel the music or even judge how well Lance was doing.

Oh, God, if he couldn't judge... Eric would kill him, but he'd have to get in line behind Randy Jackson and a whole bunch of bitchy MTV execs first.

Even though he'd made the offer, Lance seemed reluctant to have JC come with him.

"It's nothing," Lance said. "Just... Lacey will be all over you like white on rice."

"Aww, I'm not going to steal your girl--"

Lance made a face at him.

"--I know she's crazy about you."

"Ha. She's crazy about Justin, and you're far more like Justin than I am."

"I think I'll be okay by myself."

Lance hesitated.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! I'll go shopping or you can call for a babysitter. I'm sure one of your flies will agree to hang out with me for a few hours. Most of them already think I'm gay."

"'One of my flies,'" Lance said.

Oops.

"You know I only say it with love, man. I'd totally want to be one of your fruit flies if I was a woman."

"You wouldn't be hot enough."

"Mrrow! Chris was right. You're not a bass, you're a mean, mean catfish."

Lance laughed and threw a shoe at him.

"Oh, get out of here! Go hang out in public and I'll see you tonight."

** _You're so outrageous,  
I'm so glad that you came_ **

Lance didn't let JC go home until an hour before Chris' flight was due. JC appreciated his vigilance, but he wouldn't have complained if Lance had been a bit less diligent. It didn't leave him with enough time to get the house ready.

As he'd expected, the mystery dust hadn't accumulated further in his absence, but there were other things to worry about. The linens in the guest rooms hadn't been changed since he let the cleaning service go. But if he made up a bed for Chris, there'd be dust in with the fresh sheets. And he'd stopped buying groceries after a few gritty meals. The dust hadn't been good for his non-stick pans, either.

He did the best he could, calling in an order for groceries, checking the air purifiers, setting the recharged robots loose, and wiping down surfaces. Chris arrived while he was eyeing the stairs, wondering if it was worth going after the sparkles there.

"Jesus, JC, are you still claiming to be straight? 'Cause I've gotta tell you, even your dust is flaming."

"Chris!"

JC spun around and caught him in a hug.

Mmm.

Hugging Chris was good. It had always been good, when he was doing it for himself instead of for a camera.

He'd always thought that Chris was the perfect height; it was natural and comfortable to rest his arm on Chris' shoulders. And he wasn't a romantic, but there was something--maybe just how close they already were to his lips--that always called to JC, tempting him to kiss the corner of Chris' eye and feel the delicate skin there against his lips, to trace the line of his brow and nuzzle at his hairline and kiss his temple. He liked that, that the word was "temple" and it would be so easy to worship him there, each kiss a simple prayer...

And now Chris was the perfect size, too. He was so solid, and he felt more real than anyone else. Mmm, yeah. He breathed deeply, and caught the fragrance of Chris' shampoo under that strange airplane smell.

Chris' voice cut through his thoughts.

"C... I'm not complaining, but if you don't have a crush on me, you're really giving the wrong impression."

Hmm? Impression? Was there someone waiting? Chris' driver or--?

He opened his eyes and looked at the front door. It was closed, and no one was there.

Chris took a step back and then tugged at the dust cloth JC was still holding. He'd completely forgotten about it.

"I told you I could handle your mess." He tugged at it again, freeing it, and then tossed it over his shoulder. "I'm a man, I can handle a little dirt."

"A good host doesn't--"

"If I'd wanted you to clean for me, I would have sent you one of those French-maid outfits first, okay?"

Chris grinned at him, and JC shook his head.

"I am never, ever--"

"Yeah, yeah," Chris said. "It wouldn't be your best look. Tight jeans show you off much better than a skirt ever could. Wanna help me with my bags?"

"What?"

Chris gestured towards the door. "Bags. Suitcases. Those things that people lug around when they fly thousands of miles across a big ol' country to see their friends. You wanna help me with them?"

"You make my head spin," JC said, and then his ears burned with embarrassment. He hadn't meant to say that.

Chris smiled, one of his rare, honest, at-peace-with-the-world smiles.

"Good," he said.

#

"I thought this one," JC said, putting Chris' suitcases down in the guestroom that was on the same side of the house as his room.

"Hmm." Chris scratched at his goatee. His hands were free because the only other bags he'd brought were a guitar case and a laptop bag, and he'd left them in the entryway.

"It's a good room. No morning sun, I know you like that."

"Hmm," Chris said again.

"It's clean," JC said. "I would have made it up with fresh sheets 'cause they get... stale, you know? But you'll have to do that yourself if you want--"

Chris sat on the bed and bounced like he was testing the mattress.

"You'll dust for me, but you won't make my bed? What kind of service is that?"

"I... I can't."

"I can teach you." Chris gave the bed another good bounce, then grinned at JC. "I can even do military corners."

"I know how to make beds! I just can't make yours."

"Do you make your own?"

"Yes."

"Fine." Chris stood up. "Then we'll sleep in yours."

"You can't, it's--"

"Lance wants me to keep an eye on you. I can do it a lot better if I'm where you are."

"I don't think he meant it like that."

"We don't want to get on Lance's bad side, he's fierce."

"Chris-- You can't. I'm like a... like a dust magnet. You'll wake up all gritty and sneezing and it's... not nice."

"I can't sleep with you because you're a dust magnet."

"Yes."

"Huh." Chris circled around JC. "It's definitely creative... better than the old 'I have to wash my hair' line."

"It's not a line."

"Because you really are a dust magnet."

"Yes."

"All that glittery stuff downstairs?"

"_Yes_."

"Huh."

Chris chewed at his lip for a moment, and then grabbed JC's hand.

"Come on."

"What?"

"I want to see." He pulled JC out of the room. "There's dust in your room?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Chris tugged at his arm. "Let's go there."

#

Chris ran his fingers through the dust on the headboard of JC's bed, and then rubbed his fingers together.

"It doesn't feel too gritty."

"Your fingers are callused," JC said.

Chris frowned, but ran his fingers through the dust again, and then rubbed them against his cheek, above the line of his beard.

"It's not too bad, I can handle it. And how much can there be in your sheets?"

He yanked back the bed covers, and together they watched as sparkles flew into the air before drifting lazily back down.

"Huh." Chris looked back and forth from the sparkling motes to JC. "Dust magnet?" he said quietly.

"I told you."

"No, no, that's not right. If you were a dust magnet, shouldn't they have... flown at you? Like... like you should look like Pig Pen, you know? With a cloud of dust all around you, and the rest of the house clean... Yeah. Like Disco Diva!Pig Pen."

"But I sparkle."

"No, you don't."

"I do."

JC pulled up his sleeve, because he'd been wearing long sleeves since he first noticed the sparkle, but the light wasn't strong enough to make his arm shimmer. He went over to the window, opened the blinds wide, and held out his arm.

"See? I sparkle."

Chris took his hand and turned it, exposing the inside of JC's arm.

"You're so pale," he said and pressed gentle fingers at the pulse in his wrist, and again, higher, at the fold of his elbow. It took JC's breath away and made his blood surge.

Chris stroked him there, rubbing little circles with his thumb.

"You do sparkle," Chris finally said. "But, you'd look like a disco ball if this stuff was really drawn to you." He raised his other hand and touched JC's hair. "Are you sure you don't just have a really bad case of dandruff?"

JC jerked away from him, the spell broken.

"A really bad case of iridescent dandruff? Enough to fill a house? I think I would have noticed."

Chris shrugged.

"It's just a theory. Oh... Hey, C?"

"Yeah?"

"You've got something..."

Chris lifted his fingers--

"You've got something right here."

\--and touched the corner of JC's mouth, and then rested his fingertips against his bottom lip.

_God._

"What are you doing?" he asked, trying to ignore Chris' touch.

"Testing the water before I--"

"Why are you even here?" He was never Chris' first choice. "Why aren't you at Justin's? Or Lance's?"

"Well." Chris' hand dropped away. "I could say that I didn't want to get in the way of Lance's busy tango-all-day, horizontal-mambo-all-night schedule--"

JC couldn't help but snort at that. He'd never heard anyone actually say "horizontal mambo" out loud. It figured that Chris would be the one to do it.

"--or say that I'm allergic to Jessica, which I am by the way, but that's beside the point. Or I could say that I'm here because you need help and maybe I can't actually help, but at least I can distract with you with good, good loving because I'm crass and insensitive like that."

JC snorted again.

"Or I could tell the truth."

Chris didn't say anything more.

JC tapped his foot. "Well?"

"What?" The corner of Chris' mouth twitched. He was fighting back a smile.

"The truth."

"Oh, you want to hear that one?"

JC caught hold of Chris' ear and pressed his thumb where the earrings hooked into it. "I'll twist it..."

"I like it when you're mean, Chasez."

The way Chris' eyes flashed and then grew dark, made JC understand just how he liked it. He leaned forward and, feeling like a predator, breathed in Chris' scent. He toyed with the largest silver hoop.

"Tell me."

"Or maybe I've been doing some thinking, reevaluating. Bad reality shows seem to do that to me. Maybe I've let the last few years slip by without pursuing everything I've wanted. Maybe I thought I already had enough, that wanting more was greedy. And maybe I've decided that's bullshit, and I should pursue everything that life's willing to give me."

He threaded his fingers through one of JC's belt loops.

"Do you have a crush on me, JC?"

JC stared at him, and then licked his dry lips.

"I..."

Chris' thumb tucked itself into his waistband, and JC wanted more.

"I have... something on you, yeah."

"'Something.'" Chris smiled. "I'm so glad you're a lyrical genius."

"Something special."

"Oh," Chris said. He tugged at JC's waist, then tugged at his shoulder, and kind of... pulled himself up while pulling JC down to him. "Something special."

Chris kissed him, and JC gave himself up to it, to teeth and tongue and lips and Chris. Chris like maybe he'd always wanted and never truly expected.

He lost himself in it until Chris made a noise in the back of his throat and took a step back. JC leaned forward, following him, wanting to stay in the moment, wanting... well, just _wanting_. He hadn't felt...

God, when had he last felt desire?

It chilled him to think that it might have been back whenever he'd lost his music, and that was enough of a distraction to pull him completely out of his Chris-kissed haze.

"Look," Chris said.

The palms of Chris' hands were dusted with sparkles, far more sparkles than there'd been just a few minutes before.

"And look," Chris said, pointing at the floor. "That's like-- How did you do that?"

They were standing at the epicenter of a... dust circle. And JC could see where Chris had stood during their kiss because there were two distinct, dust-free footprints right in front of him.

The way the circle shimmered was so pretty... It hardly seemed right, that something so pretty made JC feel so...

"C!"

JC blinked. Chris was standing beside him, bracing him up.

"What?"

"I think you need to sit down."

JC agreed.

But somehow, instead of sitting, he ended up lying on the bed with his head on Chris' thigh. Chris' thighs were really nice; JC approved. He wanted to give Chris' thighs some small token of his appreciation, but Chris wasn't cooperating. He was too intent on making soothing noises and keeping his pants on while petting JC's hair.

Well... that was nice, too.

"So," Chris said eventually. "How long has this been going on?"

His fingers curled around JC's ear and combed through the hair behind it. His movements were deliberate and strong, and JC shuddered with pleasure. Chris could work at a salon, and JC would pay a fortune just to keep him touching his scalp.

"Hey," Chris said. "Are you going to sleep?"

"No, just..." JC waved his hand vaguely, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Ah, I see. My fingers are a secret weapon."

"Don't stop," JC said, and Chris immediately stilled his hand.

"Please?" He rubbed his forehead against Chris' thigh.

"When did this... alien dust thing begin?"

"I don't know," JC said. "I haven't-- I've been sort of losing track of things."

"Jesus, C." Chris sounded angry, but he started petting him again, so it was okay.

"I think maybe August? Late August? Lance wasn't dancing. And you were seeing that girl, I think... What happened to that girl?"

"She was sweet," Chris said.

"She was hot, and you looked cute together." It was true. JC had kind of hated her.

"Eh. She was a little too sweet and a little too young."

"Oh."

"So, August?"

"Definitely not July. Maybe September? What month is it now?"

Chris sighed, and then tugged hard on a lock of hair.

"Ow!"

"After we fix this, I want you to start keeping a diary, okay? And you're actually going to write shit down when it happens. Like... 'Friday night, May fifth. Was abducted by aliens from Planet Sequin--'"

JC laughed.

"No interrupting," Chris said. "Now, where was I? Yes. 'Aliens from the planet Sequin, who, after a cataclysmic disaster wiped out their thriving glitter-manufacturing industry, were forced to use their Sparkle Ray on me--'"

"Their Sparkle Ray!" JC laughed.

"Yes. 'And turn me into a living, breathing glitter-generator, but I escaped and--'"

JC kissed him.

#

"Hey," Chris said a little later. "That was an interruption."

"No, really?"

"Really." Chris brushed at the new dusting of sparkles gracing his shirt. "How are we going to get to the bottom of this if you keep distracting me?"

"Oh, uh... The dust isn't why I called you."

"It isn't?"

"No, it's just... a strange thing that's been happening...?"

JC knew that sounded a bit lame.

"JC, you're _spontaneously glittering_ and you don't--" Chris started to laugh. "Oh, shit. Sorry. I can't believe I just said that." He wiped at his eyes. "I'm sorry, you're spontaneously glittering and you don't think that's a problem?"

JC nodded.

"Jesus," Chris muttered.

"I'm not saying that it's not... problematic, but it's not why I asked for your help."

"I think you better lay it all out for me."

** _All of the little things  
Nobody else could understand,  
Baby, I will, I will_ **

Every once in a while, Chris wanted to stop and ask the universe when his life had become so completely bizarre. It was an empty question, though. He knew damn well that it had happened the day he decided to start a musical group with two kids from the Mickey Mouse Club. I mean, really, they were _Mice_. What had he been thinking?

His life was strange in many, many ways. Over the years, he'd grown accustomed to it. He could handle strange twists in fortune, and rollercoaster highs and lows, and, well, the whole Justin Timberlake Experience. But every once in a while, something really weird managed to sneak up on him and throw him for a loop.

Something, for instance, like today.

A small part of him was still feeling like he should hunt down the captain of the football team and sneer at him. Ha! The prettiest girl in school had the hots for him, for Christopher Kirkpatrick, the runt. How do you like them apples, hot shot?

But most of him was a breath away from freaking the fuck out. First, there was the spontaneous glitter, which was some really freaky shit right there, and then, there was JC--smokin' hot, prettiest-girl-in-school JC--trying to describe how he'd lost his music. JC seemed to think that it was mysterious and, quite possibly, magical, but Chris saw it for what it was: a huge, glaring warning sign.

And it killed him, killed him dead, to sit there with his arms full of warm, beautiful JC and think of the possibilities. Degenerative hearing loss? Neurological damage? Early on-set Alzheimer's? Brain tumor?

He sat and held JC tight.

#

"I think we should go to the music room," Chris said.

JC had explained about his music first, how he had lost it somehow without noticing the loss, what music was like now, and how he remembered it being. Then he had told him about forgetting the music room and how suddenly remembering what it was had filled him with so much horror and grief that he'd been sick.

"I'm scared of it," JC said. "It's stupid, but I don't want to go there."

Chris rubbed his back.

"That's not stupid, baby. I'm scared of it for you. But I think it's important. It has to be important, right? The JC Chasez I know wouldn't lose his lunch over nothing."

JC chuckled and laid his head on Chris' shoulder.

"'Lose my lunch?' How come you're not the famous lyrical genius here?"

"The world's not ready for me yet."

"Me, neither," JC said.

They sat a little longer, and Chris began to explain how there might be a clue in the music room. Maybe something had happened there. Maybe he'd fallen and hit his head. Maybe something in the room would jog JC's memory.

Maybe Chris was right.

He was still scared, but he also wanted to go down there with Chris. It had been his favorite room in the house; he wanted it back.

JC stood up and then held his hand out to Chris.

"Kiss me for luck before we go?"

#

They paused outside the music room door. JC closed his eyes and breathed deeply and tried to get a sense of what his stomach was doing. He didn't want to throw up again.

Chris shifted back and forth, a nervous rustling of sound that JC could follow with his eyes closed.

"I'm okay," JC said.

"That's good," Chris said. "That's really good. Be Zen in the face of fear, embody the calm before the weird-shit storm."

JC opened one eye and peered at him.

"Is that... 'the shit storm that is weird' or 'the storm of weird shit'?"

"Yes," Chris said.

"Ah. Thanks for the clarification."

"You're welcome, man. Any time."

Chris rocked back on his feet. Forward. Back. It was selfish, but his agitation made JC feel better. He thought, _Chris is worried about me, he is scared for me_, and felt warm all over. It made him brave.

"Well," JC said. "What are you waiting for?"

"What do you think? I'm waiting for you."

"So open the door for me, already."

"What am I? Your butler?" Chris said, as he reached for the knob and opened the door.

They both peered in without moving forward.

"Huh," Chris said after a long moment. "That was anticlimactic."

JC nodded, though his stomach felt like he'd been swallowing ice cubes whole. Chris stepped into the room, and JC watched him look around. It was easier to focus on Chris than on the room.

"You know," Chris said. "I was expecting it to be hip-deep in glitter in here. I was all prepared to see like... prairie dogs in sequined jumpsuits dancing on a mountain of glitter."

JC stepped through the door, and Chris looked over at him.

"You holding up okay?"

JC nodded.

The room was dusty, but it was normal, run-of-the-mill, haven't-cleaned-for-months dust. There were cobwebs on some of the shelves, and a long, furry-with-dust strand of cobweb hung from the ceiling near the stereo. It made JC feel empty to see it. He thought there was probably a space inside of him that looked just like that.

"I think you've got a family of Daddy-Long-Legs in here," Chris said from over in the corner by the vinyl records.

JC nodded.

Chris came over to him. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"This is my favorite room," JC said.

"Yeah, I know."

"That's my favorite chair." JC pointed to it.

"Oh, yeah?" Chris walked over to it, touched the furry afghan, and then grinned. "Hey, this is your porn room, isn't it?"

"Yes..."

"Guess I shouldn't touch anything, huh?"

JC rolled his eyes.

"I clean up after myself."

"I'm just saying--"

"And if you're afraid of my spunk, you really should have thought of that before kissing me today."

"Hey," Chris said. "I'm your boyfriend, I can handle your spunk."

_His boyfriend?_

"You're my--? Um..."

"Well, maybe I'm jumping ahead, but as your future boyfriend, the sentiment still stands. I'm not afraid of your stuff, I'm actually looking forward to becoming acquainted with it, but your old stuff? Eww. Not so much. Fresh is best."

JC shook his head. "You're insane."

"Yeah, so?"

"I like it."

Chris' smile lit up the room and melted the last of the ice in JC's belly.

#

Chris was looking for clues and JC wanted to help him, but he didn't even know what a clue would look like in this case. If he couldn't help, he could at least avoid being a hindrance, so he sat in his chair--it was such a comfortable chair--and watched Chris. Out of the way, but ready to answer questions: that was good, right?

Chris sorted through a stack of CD cases that were piled on top of the stereo stand.

"I'm surprised you didn't put these away," Chris said. "You must have taken them out the last time you were here."

That made sense, but it didn't seem like much of a clue.

"Do you remember? When were you in here last? What were you doing?"

"I... I was napping."

"Hmm." Chris wiped the dust and cobwebs from the stereo. "But you wouldn't have come in here just for a nap. You would have watched something or listened to something."

He turned on the stereo and sound filled the room. JC didn't recognize it, but Chris listened to it for a moment and then smirked.

"Wow," he said. "I'm surprised it isn't 'Computer Love.'"

"What?"

"That's Zapp &amp; Roger's Greatest Hits. 'Computer Love' would have been right up your alley... though I suppose this is still a little kinky."

JC still didn't recognize it, but he tried to focus, to hear the words through the sound.

"_You really make me_," Chris sang. "_You really make me, you really make me, you make me wanna scream. Make me wanna scream._"

JC froze.

"'So Ruff, So Tuff,'" he managed to say after a moment.

"You got it." Chris poked through a few more CDs, then turned on the DVD player as he continued to sing. "_Forget about your troubles, just get on down. Forget about your troubles_..."

He'd been listening to this, and Eric had been talking to him.

And he'd said something to Eric. He didn't remember. But there'd been something weird.

Something important.

"Huh," Chris said. "No DVD in here." He turned off the player.

Eric had said something important-- No. It was how he had said it.

_Then be that way, JC._

All dark and weird, and JC had thought he was going to quit.

But Eric hadn't quit.

But Eric hadn't called him, either.

Eric always called. Something wasn't right.

_Then be that way, JC._

Had Eric... cursed him?

Could he have cursed him? That was crazy, wasn't it? But it would explain so much...

"Well," Chris said. "We're not having much luck here, are we? Wanna do something else?"

He couldn't tell Chris.

What would happen?

If Eric had cursed him, he wasn't going to cop to it. People didn't go around advertising that they were... what? Witches? Evil fairies? Eric would deny it, and they wouldn't be able to prove it. But if Chris believed JC, if he really thought that Eric had done something to hurt JC, he'd go ballistic. He'd go after Eric. He'd attack him and end up arrested and charged with assault, and prison was pretty much the last place a boybander should ever, ever go--even fairly tough, ex-boybanders like Chris.

No.

That wasn't going to happen.

JC wasn't going to tell him. He wasn't even certain that it was a curse.

And if it was?

Well, what the hell was Eric thinking? That JC would come begging? Crawling on his hands and knees, begging for forgiveness or whatever it took to make him lift the curse? Hadn't Eric learned anything?

JC was the boss. He wasn't some cowed little boybander tiptoeing around, listening to his handlers, and trying to make everyone happy.

He didn't have much of a career, but he was the talent, _he_ was the millionaire paying Eric's fucking paycheck, and Eric could just fuck off back to... Evil Fairyland if he didn't like it.

There was always a surprise twist in the fairy tales, some unexpected trick to breaking a curse without appeasing the evil fairy. And nine times out of ten, the heroes just stumbled upon the answer when the time was right.

And JC figured his odds were a whole lot better than ninety percent. No one did tricky like his Chris did.

#

JC's groceries were finally delivered. Chris helped put them away, all the while mixing questions like "Salad dressing, 'fridge or cupboard?" with questions about his music and "When was your last physical?"

JC agreed that he probably should go and at least have an ear, nose, and throat guy check him out. Chris patted his ass and volunteered to check him out as well. JC handed him a package of ground turkey and asked him to make dinner instead.

"Hmmph," Chris said.

"I need my strength."

While Chris pulled out a frying pan and made burgers, JC tried to make a salad. He thought if he concentrated and moved slowly and didn't let his mind wander from the task at hand, maybe he could keep his dust from getting in the salad.

Chris hummed a bit, and poked at the burgers and sighed.

"Cows are our friends. We should eat them."

"It's not nice to eat your friends," JC said, carefully slicing a tomato.

Chris turned the flame down on the stove and pushed JC up against the butcher's block for a quick demonstration of how it could be very nice to eat a friend. Afterwards, JC asked him if he planned to do the same the next time he met a cow. Chris laughed, and JC wished for a camera.

Chris looked unbelievable, laughing with slick lips and sparkles in his hair and his shoulders glinting like he was wearing sequined epaulets. JC pulled him up off his knees and kissed him, and thought of that day so long ago when they'd been painted up to celebrate their first gold record. He wished that he had been brave enough to kiss Chris then.

"Dinner," Chris said and turned back to the stove.

The turkey burgers were good, but the salad was gritty.

#

Chris brought his laptop up to the bedroom and fired it up once JC was asleep. He was too old to be pulling all-nighters, but he didn't see how he could possibly sleep.

He sat in bed, JC snuggled all up along his side, and started searching. He knew there were games and mental exercises and things that were supposed to help slow memory loss in Alzheimer's patients. And sometimes, people with brain damage regained lost skills when other parts of their brains learned new ways to do old tricks. But there was so much more that he needed to know.

#

"Hey, baby," Chris said when JC woke up.

JC sneezed and then asked, "Don't you sleep in anymore?"

"Not today. I think I'm still on Eastern Time."

"Oh," JC said. "Does that mean you made me coffee?"

"Nope."

"You're mean," JC told him. "Almost as mean as Lance."

"Didn't your mother warn you about that?"

"Mean counter tenors? I don't think she ever got that specific..."

"About setting a precedent with breakfast in bed at the start of a relationship."

"If you make me coffee, I'll blow you."

"Bribery," Chris said, getting out of bed. "I'm disturbingly okay with that."

#

Chris was a genius.

He brought him coffee in a thermal travel mug, so it stayed hot while JC thanked him. And afterwards, JC leaned back on pillows silvered with dust, removed the mug's lid, and enjoyed delicious, sparkle-free coffee.

Chris was definitely a keeper.

#

Chris took their blankets outside and shook them out. Then, he brought them in, thinking he could toss them in the dryer and tumble more glitter out of them, but he stopped before he turned the dryer on. What if JC's glitter-dust was combustible?

Hmm... Experiment time.

He grabbed a stainless steel mixing bowl from the kitchen and went in search of an easily harvestable dust supply. He could just go and sex up JC some more, that seemed the surest way, but then he'd have to explain what he was doing.

He wondered if sexy stuff was the only thing that generated the dust. That would mean JC had been... busy jerking off everywhere in the house? Not impossible. Not even improbable, but he would have figured out the connection pretty quickly if it only happened when he touched himself. Right?

In the den, he noticed that the floor near the couch glittered more than its surroundings. He knelt down and peered under the couch. Aha! He'd struck gold!

Well... Fool's Gold or something.

He scooped up a bunch and dumped it in the bowl. He grabbed some other supplies, and then headed back outside.

The thing about the glitter was: it gave him hope. It was the only thing about this whole situation that he didn't have a rational explanation for. And, well, he'd choose aliens from Planet Sequin over sick-and-dying JC any day. Aliens could at least be negotiated with... or something.

He took the glitter to the farthest corner of the yard and stuck a sheet of paper in the bowl like a wick. Then he set it down, lit a corner of the paper on fire, and got the hell back.

He waited. The flame consumed the visible portion of the paper, then descended into the bowl and out of sight. He counted: a minute, two, three...

Nothing happened.

A delayed explosion would be a really good way to lose his eyebrows, so he waited another minute and then checked the bowl. Ash from the paper dulled the shine of the glitter, but it wasn't even hot to the touch.

So... not flammable, but maybe still combustible? Where was JC's grill?

JC came out while Chris was busy with the grill. His hair was wet and he wasn't wearing a shirt, and Chris couldn't help but admire him.

_Prettiest girl in school_, he thought again, and reminded himself to never say that to JC. He didn't think of JC as a girl, but the feeling of pride and wonder was the same.

"Are you making breakfast?" JC asked.

"Nah." Chris poked at the glitter again with the long-handled grill spatula. "I'm just failing to make an explosion."

"What?"

"Nothing. Did you call your doctor?"

"I have an appointment for Monday."

"Great!"

"Yeah," JC said. He walked over and peered into the bowl, then pressed a kiss to Chris' temple. "When you're finished playing mad scientist, come inside. I'll put a Pop-Tart in the toaster for you."

Chris smiled. Who else would be so calm about him trying to explode their grill?

"You'll spoil me."

"You're my boyfriend," JC said. "You can handle it."

Chris shut off the propane and followed him inside. He totally had something better to do. After all, it wasn't every day that he got to do his new boyfriend.

#

JC got a can of Pledge out in the afternoon and began cleaning the bedroom. He didn't think they'd be able to sleep in there the way it was now. It was scary how much dust he was now... what? Shedding? Exhaling? Drawing from the ether?

It would be terrifying, if it didn't feel so damn good. He wondered if it was good because it was Chris or if it was because he hadn't gotten any for so long. He told himself that it was Chris, because the thought made him happy--and because he wasn't about to go so long without again just to test the theory.

He wanted Chris to fuck him. He knew he'd love it, though he hadn't had it like that in years, not since before NSYNC. Chris would be so good, so intense and just the right amount of rough and--

God, look.

He was glittering again. He couldn't think about Chris and clean at the same time.

He wiped away the new dust, and sighed. They probably shouldn't fuck until this was over. It would be scratchy, worse than sex on a beach, and there were places that glitter should really never go.

That didn't stop him from wanting it, though.

** _What you do to me,  
I can't explain  
You're so good_ **

JC's doctor gave him a clean bill of health.

JC wasn't surprised, because he'd been careful to think only unsexy thoughts during the check-up, mainly dead kittens, needles, and the way Justin's hair had looked when he was seventeen. He didn't want to know how medical professionals would react to spontaneous glittering. If it was something that they were prepared to handle, he would have found some trace of it on the internet.

To celebrate JC's good news, Chris dragged him into the bathroom, fingered him until he begged, and then fucked him in the shower. Twice.

He was a genius, a fucking genius, and JC wouldn't change a thing about him, not even how smug he looked later as he handed JC a bottle of Drano with a cheery, "You clogged it, you fix it, bucko."

The way Chris fucked was worth any number of clogged shower drains.

#

Chris started coining new phrases like "make glitter, not war" and "glitter me, baby." When JC teased him about needing a new hobby, he retaliated by putting on Bad Company and serenading JC with a terribly off-key chorus of "Feel Like Makin' Glitter."

Later, JC thought it was strange that Chris had been off-key.

Did he somehow hear Chris more clearly than anything else? Or did he just know him so well that his brain automatically filled in that he would, of course, sing it that way?

#

One doctor's exam wasn't enough to satisfy Chris. It wasn't long at all before he started suggesting specialists and talking about second opinions. Since JC had asked for his help, he thought that it was only right that he give Chris' suggestions a try.

And so, their lives fell into a routine of sorts. There were doctor's appointments, and bouts of sex alternating with bouts of cleaning, and there was, in between everything else, sessions of the Christopher Alan Kirkpatrick School for Wayward Music because, as Chris explained, JC's music wasn't lost, it had just gone off somewhere without him. They could trick it into coming back.

The CAKSWM--

"_Cake Swim_," Chris said. "I think it should be pronounced 'cake swim.'"

\--was entirely unpredictable, and JC looked forward to it almost as much as he did the sex.

#

CAKSWM began one morning when JC came down for breakfast. Chris was already there, sitting at the table and fiddling with his laptop. It was making a strange grinding, growling noise.

He poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat down next to Chris. "Did you drop your laptop?"

"No."

"It sounds like its fan is broken."

"It's music," Chris said. He had to be kidding.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Listen."

JC concentrated. Either he couldn't identify music at all anymore or...

"What is this? Do I know this?"

"I doubt it. It's Goatwhore."

"It's-- It's Sunday morning, and you're listening to something called 'Goatwhore' for breakfast?"

Chris grinned.

"It's good, old-fashioned, made in the U.S. of A., death metal. Don't you like it?"

"I think I'm opposed to it on principle. _Goatwhore._ What kind of name is that?"

"Well..." Chris scratched at his beard. "I think they're going for the whole 'sex with Satan' shtick, but that's really because I hope it's not a bestiality thing. They've got six albums, that's really too much goat-fucking for anyone."

"Goats are our friends," JC said. "We should eat them."

Chris laughed. "You sick fuck."

#

Goatwhore was Chris' first attempt at Aversion Therapy. His theory was that if he could find at least one piece of music that was so awful that JC hated it, even in the state he was in, then they could use that emotion to unlock other, more positive musical vibes later.

The theory had merit, but JC didn't have much hope for it. Chris had always been more easily irritated by music than he was.

#

JC woke to the sound of the Bay City Rollers being piped, quite loudly, through the house. Once he'd identified them--it was easy what with the handclaps and the "S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, hey!"--he'd smiled. He couldn't get into the music, but he'd always liked those natty little scarves BCR had worn.

Chris pounced onto the bed a moment later. "Wake up! Wake up! It's Battle of the Boybands Day!"

"Couldn't they battle more quietly?"

"Are you kidding? These aren't some wimpy little, O-Town boybands. These are giants! They're loud, they're proud, they're... uh... I'm sure I had another rhyme a moment ago."

By the time his play list got to the New Kids, Chris was obviously regretting his loud, proud boyband decree. JC told him to "Hang tough," and then ran out of the house laughing. Chris chased him around the yard and when he was finally caught, JC promised to take him to the corner store and buy him earplugs.

While JC looked for earplugs, Chris wandered around the store, picking up lube, condoms, beef jerky, Pixie Stix, and one banana.

"Anything else?" JC asked.

"I'm good," Chris said, and winked at him before handing the green-haired check-out girl the box of condoms and the banana.

"Oh," she said. "Uh... just the one?"

"Well..." Chris said. "I only really need the one."

He launched into a story about his sisters and needing to teach them about safe sex and how else could he demonstrate it? She rung up his other items while laughing and suggesting that he at least try to find a less bendy banana.

"But not everyone has a straight banana, you know? What do you think, C? Should I go with a straight banana or try teaching them on a more challenging, bendy banana?"

"I think we should just pay the lady and split."

"Ba-da-bum! Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you the puns of Chasez!"

JC dragged him out of the store.

"Works every time," Chris said, busy unpeeling his banana in the car.

"Making a fool of yourself?"

"Yeah. They never seem to notice all the lube you're buying while they're busying laughing at you. Want some of my banana?"

"I'll deal with your banana later."

Chris grinned. "I'm counting on it."

#

Lance frequently called to check on him, but after the third time JC reached for the phone in the middle of "making glitter," Chris put a stop to it.

He wrestled the phone from him, and planted his elbow squarely on JC's chest before answering.

"Hey, Bass, glad you called, I need you to help me with something. ... Oh, no, nothing like that. JC is fine. ... Mmm, hmm. Seriously fine, he's just got a little compulsion that I was hoping you could help me with. I think it's a 'Digital Getdown' thing."

JC tried to grab the phone back, but Chris was too well-practiced at evading capture. He rolled right off the bed and out of reach. When JC peered over the edge of mattress at him, he stuck out his tongue.

"What? ... No, I'm fine. We're all fine here, 'cept whenever JC starts getting freaky, he reaches for the phone-- Oh! A thought occurs... do you think he's trying to get it on with both of his Chris's at once?"

JC smacked him with a pillow, and they lost Lance in the scuffle. After that, Lance still called, but mini-Chris wasn't allowed in the bedroom anymore.

#

Chris came running in from a shopping trip one day and announced, "Oh my God, oh my God, JC, I found the most perfect thing ever!"

He pressed a CD single into JC's hand. It was "I'm a Vampire" by Shitting Glitter.

"I'm not listening to this," JC said.

"'Shitting Glitter,' C. _Shitting Glitter._ It's only the most perfect name ever. Why weren't we named 'Shitting Glitter'? We would've been huge!"

"We were huge."

"We would have been huger! And if people asked us why Justin's bandanas were so sparkly, we could've said, 'Because we wipe our butts on them!'"

JC laughed, but afterwards, he told Chris that he wouldn't listen to the CD until Chris called Justin and shared the joke with him. Somehow, Chris never got around to making that call.

#

JC returned from taking the garbage out and found Chris pouring the contents of a Pixie Stik onto a salad plate.

"You're supposed to be loading the dishwasher," he said.

"I'll do it in a moment."

"Chris--"

Chris stuck his finger into the plate of candy sugar and then licked it.

"--what are you--?"

Then Chris stuck his finger into another plate that JC hadn't noticed and--

JC grabbed his wrist. "Chris! Fuck! Don't do that!"

"It's just glitter."

"You can't. You can't do that."

"I'm just curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat! Fuck. You have no idea what that could do to you!"

"It's not like I don't get it in my mouth when we're doing other things."

"That's different," he said. "That's just a flake or two. It's not like... concentrated dust."

JC really hoped that was true.

#

Chris called Joey one afternoon and asked about some records he'd given Briahna a couple years ago. After Joey agreed to make copies of them and send them to JC's, Chris gave the phone to JC.

"Hey, Joey."

"Hey, baby. Are we talking on Chris? Do you wanna get freaky deaky?"

Lance had a big mouth.

But Joey laughed then and apologized, and they had a good chat, JC reassuring him that he was okay and Joey sharing the latest family gossip.

#

A couple of days later, the package from Joey arrived. Chris pounced on it.

"Yes! These are great, you'll love these. They're from when you were just a little kid." Chris smiled and shook the package at him. "I, of course, was a very mature, seven-year-old and I was never into this."

"Just as mature as you are now, I'm sure."

JC took the package from him and ripped it open.

"Hey! I didn't say you could open that! You should have said 'pretty please' or something."

"It was addressed to both of us." JC took the CDs out and tossed the empty box to him. "See?"

Joey had scrawled on the CDs: _Seseme Disco!_ and _Seasme St Fever_. JC laughed and showed them to Chris.

Chris took the discs and shook his head sadly. "I knew I should've asked B to do it. She and Kelly have the brains in that family. Well, anyway, come on. There's a song on here that's perfect for us."

But Joey hadn't included a track listing, so Chris had to fast forward through both discs, looking for what he wanted.

"Ah, here it is!" Chris paused the track and turned to take JC's hand. "Okay, now, you stand right here."

Chris positioned him so that he was standing about a foot in front of him. He placed his hands on JC's hips, and then nudged him a bit closer.

"Yeah, good. Okay, so, you need a little background here. This song could so totally be about us. There's Bert--"

He tapped JC's chest.

"--a tall, skinny guy who can't carry a tune in a bucket and has like zero rhythm. And then there's his shorter, and much handsomer, life partner--"

He winked at JC while tapping his own chest.

"--who is just too talented for words, he's so amazing."

"I don't remember this version of _Sesame Street_."

"Shut up, you."

JC grinned.

"So, you see," Chris said, "this could be our song, only there's this whole thing about Bert and his pigeons, and his 'favorite' pigeon, Bernice, and we're just going to ignore that part of the metaphor, okay? 'Cause, man, if you're going to cheat on me--"

"No," JC said.

"--or if we're going to be bisexual swingers, I'd just really prefer if it wasn't with anyone pigeon-like and/or named Bernice. Okay?"

"We'll save our threesomes for pretty songbirds, yeah."

"Good," Chris said. "Then we can do this without taking the lyrics too literally."

"What lyrics?"

"Didn't I say?"

"No."

"It's when Ernie teaches Bert how to disco, and they sing 'Doin' the Pigeon.'"

JC laughed.

"No, really, it's great. If Bert can dance, you can dance. And most of Bert's lines are spoken. The only singing you'll have to do is call-and-response, okay?"

And so, they danced. Kind of.

JC wasn't dancing to the music. He couldn't feel the music. But with Chris' hands on his hips and Chris' smile getting brighter every time JC was forced to echo "Doin'... the pigeon," he couldn't help but _feel_ Chris and move with him.

It was probably the most ridiculous thing he had ever done, and it was wonderful.

#

There was Literal Choreography Day, when Chris made up songs like "It Makes Me Ill (When You Show Me the Shape of Your Heart)."

There was Abba Day, when Chris made good use of his brand-new earplugs.

There was Role Play Day, when they reenacted the "4 Minutes" video. JC held out until Chris agreed to let him be Justin. He wore a nice scarf and Chris produced a bustier from somewhere, and they had Four Minutes to Save the World from Planet Sequin's Sparkle Ray.

JC wasn't sure how that day was supposed to help him find his misplaced music, but he hoped that they would do it again. Chris looked hot in leather and eye-liner.

There were Guess the Theme Days, and random theme-less days which were perhaps the best days of all. Chris would sit in JC's favorite chair and pull JC down into his lap, and maybe he'd play something quiet on the stereo or maybe he'd sing a little and JC would press his ear to Chris' chest and it didn't matter that nothing sounded right because he knew he could still feel love.

** _Is this the beginning?  
Or beginning of the end?  
Well I got other thoughts, my friend_ **

JC went to doctor, after doctor, after doctor. He wasn't crazy about them even at the best of times, but he was going for Chris. He had to tell himself that more and more, as more and more of the tests they wanted required blood work.

The needles would come out, and he'd think of Chris. Only, he couldn't think of Chris without glittering a little, not these days. There were specialists all over the greater Los Angeles area who could attest to the fact that there was nothing wrong with JC beyond an abnormal fondness for body glitter.

Every time JC was given a clean bill of health, Chris did something special to celebrate the occasion. He'd give JC an hour-long massage or make a special meal or sit, uncomplaining, through a movie of JC's choice. One night, he wore nothing but leather pants and eye-liner and let JC take pictures of him.

JC loved the celebrations. In his entire life, he'd never been given anything quite like Chris' undivided attention. But... after the first few, it seemed like Chris was growing less... intense somehow. There were a few less CAKSWM sessions and a little more simply hanging out together.

It worried JC.

Maybe Chris was just losing interest in him, and JC could accept that even though he hated it. Nothing this good could last forever. But what if it was darker than that? What if it was from prolonged exposure to JC's dust? Wasn't that how things had begun with him? Slowly losing interest in his life? Spending more and more time watching the dust until he was nearly hypnotized by it?

He had to do something before he lost Chris to the dust.

#

He came home from his appointment with the third neurologist on their list, and found Chris in the kitchen, planting a small cactus in a pot of glitter. God, they still had no idea what it was or what it was doing to Chris, but Chris just kept on playing with the stuff.

"Chris..."

"Yeah?"

"You can't do that--"

_You can't do that, you'll die,_ he wanted to say.

"--it'll die."

"No, it won't."

"Chris--"

"It won't! I'll watch it carefully. If it starts to die, I'll repot it."

JC wrapped his arm around him and watched him carefully as he tamped the glitter down around the cactus. He pressed his lips to Chris' brow and asked, "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"It doesn't matter," Chris said. "I know what I'm doing with you."

It was good that somebody knew what they were doing.

#

That night, Chris hooked his laptop up to the stereo and put an MP3 of Eric Dolphy's "Glad to be Unhappy" on repeat. JC had it on vinyl, but Chris said the record would be too much trouble this time.

He pulled the afghan off of JC's chair and spread it out on the floor, then turned down the lights and sat with his back against the chair. He beckoned to JC.

"Come be with me."

JC sat in the V of his legs and leaned against him. "This would be better if I was shorter."

"Don't," Chris said. "I like you this way." His lips brushed the back of JC's neck. "Are you comfortable? We'll be here for a while."

"I'm good."

"Okay," Chris said. "This is really simple. We're just going to close our eyes and open our ears, all right?"

JC nodded.

"Great. Can you still count beats?"

"I think so."

"Okay. The song's about to begin again. Don't worry about what you're feeling, what you're not feeling. Just count the measures."

It was a quiet jazz piece, just flute and piano, bass and subtle percussion. It wasn't simple, so much as unadorned.

JC concentrated on counting.

"Don't think too hard," Chris said. "If you can't count them right away, just listen for a while longer."

So, he just listened. And he felt the in-and-out of Chris' breath, felt it in the movements of his chest and its whisper-touch along his neck. And then he felt another little beat down by his ankles. Chris' toes were wiggling, ever so slightly, to the music. He was no more capable of sitting still while listening to music than JC had been.

He listened.

The song started again--it was only about six minutes long--and somewhere in it all, JC fell into it. The beat was there and he knew it. And he held his breath and listened.

"You're going to turn blue," Chris said quietly. "Switch to the bass line for a while, okay? Just follow the bass."

JC listened. And it got easier. It didn't feel right, but it was so close.

Chris shifted behind him, then reached around and rested his hand low on JC's belly.

"Don't look now, but you're tapping your foot."

JC had to look, and, of course, that threw him off. But it was okay. Chris was tapping the beat against his belly, and something stirred in him that was almost sex and a lot like music.

"Can you follow the flute?" Chris asked.

JC shook his head.

"I can keep the bass line for you."

JC shook his head again. He was so close, so close... He was afraid to misstep.

"Okay," Chris said. "Whenever you're ready."

He lost track of how many times the song played. Just, somewhere along the way, he'd picked up all the pieces. He knew the beat and he knew how the piano, bass, and drum were sharing their job together. He knew the story that the flute was telling. If he just put those pieces all together, he'd have it. He'd be there. He'd--

"What if there's nothing wrong with me?" he said.

Chris didn't say anything, but he curled a little more around JC, holding him fast.

"It's all right there, I can feel it. I could reach it, if I wanted it."

"Do you want it?"

JC twined his fingers with Chris'.

"I've been kind of thinking lately that it was worth it."

"'Worth it'?"

"Like if it was a trade. I lost something, and I gained something."

"Oh," Chris said. "It's not--"

"I've been thinking you're worth it. I don't want you to leave me just because I'm fixed. But I also don't want to lose you because I can't be fixed."

"Wow," Chris said. "That is so not what is happening here. For one, I'm not some sort of karmic consolation prize. If anything, I'm pretty sure I'm punishment for whatever you did in your last life, and for two-- For two, you're mine now and I'm not planning to let you go, so you can just tell the Prom King and that football guy that you're sticking with me. Okay?"

JC shifted and turned till he was kneeling, facing Chris.

"'The Prom King'?"

Chris shrugged. "It's a thing."

"I don't know who he is," JC said. "But I don't want him. No Prom King, no football guy. I want you, I want you more than I can say."

JC pressed close, wrapping himself around him tight, and Chris kissed him, hot and sweet, then hard and demanding.

"Yes," JC breathed. "Yes, yes. God. I want you more than I want my music back."

Chris jerked away from him.

"Jesus, C!"

"I love you."

Chris slumped in on himself and dropped his head to JC's shoulder.

"God, JC. I love you, too, baby. You have no idea. But you can't want me more than your music."

"Yes, I can."

"No," Chris said. "You really, really can't."

Eric Dolphy's jazz flute was still playing in the background, high and pure and soulful.

JC really kind of hated it.

#

JC was confused. When someone emphatically denied your feelings for them, when someone insisted that you couldn't love them, that was clearly a rejection. It was, at the very least, a sign that you were having a fight.

But Chris wasn't acting like they were in the middle of a fight. Chris was still acting like they were happy, new boyfriends who couldn't go for more than a few hours without sexing each other up or making each other laugh or kissing each other in the middle of cleaning house.

It was very, very odd.

If JC couldn't want Chris, then why was he making JC want him so much? He didn't have to crack stupid jokes or hold JC's hand when they watched TV or make up songs to sing while watering the glitter-cactus. He didn't have to stick around, making JC coffee and washing his sheets and giving him sweet, sweet blow-jobs.

It had to mean something, right?

JC decided that if Chris hadn't considered it a rejection, then he wouldn't either. Instead, he'd consider it a challenge. Somehow, he would prove it. He _could_ want Chris. He would show Chris the extent of his love.

Oh, wait...

That sounded a little too much like JC was planning to show Chris the shape of his heart.

Oh, Jesus. Wouldn't Chris love that?

You could take the man out of the boyband, but you couldn't take the boyband lexicon out of the boy.

#

JC was sort of watching porn after a particularly pleasant, bad afternoon.

Chris had burned their lunch. It was only grilled cheese, but instead of just getting out more bread and trying again, he had grumped and declared all food that didn't come in a delivery box an abomination in his sight. JC had sent him out of the kitchen and ordered Chinese.

Their sweet-and-sour chicken had been good, but it came with steamed white rice. It was a minor thing, but Chris liked pork fried rice and JC preferred steamed brown.

Later, they made out in the music room until they decided there was too much glitter and too little lube to take things further. One of them could have gotten up and fetched more lube, but they were both feeling too lazy for that. And it hardly mattered when they could curl up together and watch porn.

Well, JC was a little too comfortable snuggled up with his face buried in the crook of Chris' neck to actually watch the screen. And the on-screen action must not have been doing it for Chris, because he was now listening to two--or maybe three--ladies' sex moans overlaid with the soundtrack of Chris' soft snores.

All in all, it was a seriously imperfect day, and there was no good reason for the glow of contentment that JC was enjoying.

No, not a glow... a shine...

The sparkle of contentment.

Yeah.

Or maybe the sparkles he saw behind his closed eyes when Chris fucked him in the shower. Yeah.

The porn sounds wove through JC's thoughts as he listened to Chris sleeping and thought about fucking, the deep, satisfying rhythm of it, and the way the sound of a shower would forever turn him on now. It was heat in his bones, a bass thrum in his blood. It had a melody like laughter, and the sparkles, how did the sparkles fit in? A wire brush beating against a snare? No. Against a cymbal, accenting the constant--

Chris shifted, then rolled over in his arms.

Where was he? Accenting the constant--

Chris was staring at him, a strange look on his face.

"What?"

"You're humming."

No, he wasn't, he was...

"Dude, _you're humming._ What are you humming?"

Fuck.

Where was a pencil? He needed to write this down.

#

_Friday, December 12th--Escaped from Planet Sequin. Aliens not pleased. Fuck them. Boyfriend was overjoyed to have me back and fucked me stupid. Yay!_

PS: Have idea for song.

PPS: If manager is evil fairy or perhaps in cahoots with the Sequintonians, find new one ASAP. Must avoid having boyfriend cursed.

** _Cruise along until we hit the back seat  
Because that's where the music sounds so sweet_ **

"I have a theory," JC said one day after Marciella and her crew had left and there were nice, fresh sheets on the bed.

"Mm-hmm." Chris made a grabby-hand gesture at him, and JC handed him a pillow. "Lift your hips a bit, baby."

"It's about my glitter--"

Chris slipped the pillow under JC hips and grabby-handed at him again.

"Geez," JC said, passing the lube down to him. "You're such a demanding lover, I don't know how I can--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Chris popped open the tube. "I don't have to do this, you know. I could always go downstairs and listen to your 'Chris is my underwater lover, he makes me sparkle' song and--"

"He makes me sparkle _like the sand in the sea_."

"--get myself off."

"Oh, no, please continue," JC said, shifting his hips a little more. "If it's not too much trouble."

Chris chuckled.

"So I'll just carry on, then?"

"Please do."

"If you're certain..."

"God dammit, Chris--!"

#

"So," JC said later. "I have a theory about my glitter. I think I know what it was."

"Oh, yeah?" Chris snuggled closer to him, hogging the blankets.

"Yeah. I think it was-- I think it was like my unsung songs."

"Huh," Chris said.

"I think maybe every dust mote was a husk, like a little dried memory of a single note of music, and like... when I glittered, that was when I would have been singing or dancing or just, you know, thrumming with joy and sex and love and shit."

"'And shit.'"

"Yeah, everything that makes me want to sing."

"Cool."

"Yeah." JC pressed a kiss to his forehead. "And you were right."

"Well, duh. Of course I was."

"Without my music, I couldn't want you enough."

"It was never about 'enough.'"

"No, it was. I wanted to love you with everything that I was--everything that I am--and I couldn't, not when I was missing a piece of me."

"Jesus," Chris said, rolling his eyes. "That is so disgustingly sweet."

JC didn't mind 'cause he was also grinning so hard he glowed.

"Yeah," JC said. "I'm going to write a song about it, make Backstreet record it."

"Dude, imagine the choreography for that!"

"_Let me show you the shape of the missing chunk of my heart,_" JC sang.

"Shoot me now, I'm in love with the sixth Backstreet Boy."

"_I don't care who you are, where you're from--_"

Chris hit him with the pillow. JC giggled and continued to sing.

"_What you did_\--even if it was beating me with a pillow--"

Chris smacked him with it again, even as he joined him in singing the chorus.

"--_as long as you love me._"


End file.
